Sherlock Holmes in the Case of the Living Dead
by CouldbeDangerous221
Summary: My attempt at a short story in the style of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock Holmes must find out who is behind the mysterious murder of an anatomy professor.


**Sherlock Holmes**

** in **

**The Case of the Living Dead**

In all the time I've have lived at 221B. Baker Street, I have seen many a strange character knock on the door and cross our threshold. It had never failed to amaze me the type of clients that would come to see my friend, Sherlock Holmes. In reflection, I would have to admit that this case was of no exception to the rule.

It was the year 1884, and if I remember correctly, a rather drear and dull morning, so much as that the fogs were too thick and the sky too black for anyone to venture outside. I sat in my chair by the fire, content to bury my attention in a medical journal that had recently arrived to the flat.

Holmes had complained early at breakfast that he had needed something to stimulate his mind, and after a rapid glance over the _Times, _concluded there was nothing there to capture his attention. Now he sat alone in the corner, pipe in hand, brooding deeply over his chemistry set.

"Say, Watson," Holmes turned to me, deciding to break the silence of the room, "What would you say is the active medical component of belladonna?"

"Belladonna?" I had become quite used to Holmes' dabbling in chemical areas and often being consulted because of my medicinal knowledge. I readily provided the answer. "That would be atropine."

"Hmm, thank you, Watson." Holmes went on to mixed some powdered substances and herbs into one of his beakers.

I myself went back to my reading. Holmes' request was nothing out of the ordinary, for he researched poisons like a fiend for his detective work. Still the minutes seemed to drag by, and the soft clinking of Holmes' glassware combined the ticking of the clock lulled me into a lethargic trance.

I must have dozed off, for I was jolted awake by the strange sound of breaking glass and the faint noise of someone calling my name.

"Watson…" Holmes' hoarse voice beckoned me to come to the desk. Hurriedly, I rushed to his side. I panicked at the sight of him. He was doubled-over in his chair, face flushed, with a small pile of glass shards at his feet.

"Holmes!" I cried, noticing the size of his pupils had dilated from their normal state. My practiced medical mind recognized all the symptoms of belladonna poisoning.

"Watson… Watson," Holmes could hardly piece together a sentence. "Antidote…" a small beaker that held a mysterious mixture rested next to his microscope. Under normal circumstances, I would have bluntly refused to administer any unknown component to a client of mine. But having no time to sit and concoct an antidote myself, I prayed Holmes had had the foresight to prepare a cure for the poison he had administered himself.

Swiftly, I picked up the glass and held it to his thin lips. My friend readily accepted the liquid, and soon he was able to sit up by himself in the desk chair.

"Holmes, by God, what on earth were you thinking this time?" I demanded. The violent red color that had been the shade of his face only minutes beforehand was slowly diminishing to a sickly pallor.

"Water, Watson, please," He requested, slowly removing a handkerchief from his pocket to mop away the sweat that was forming along his brow.

I did better and brought him a brandy, for he looked as if he was going to faint from his nearly fatal exploit. He gratefully accepted the tumbler and sipped the amber liquid

"Now, explain to me why you would poison yourself, Holmes." I was used to his self-destructive ways. Holmes liked to experiment with injections and chemical compounds, and it was not beyond him to use himself as the subject to test these on. Yet, every one of his experimentations rattled my nerves. I feared the consequences of one of Holmes' chemical trials could end up in his death.

Holmes finished the brandy and set the glass down on the desk. "I was merely testing the effectiveness of some _genus Pilocarpus_ leaves I attained from the druggist store as an antidote." He explained. "A specific preparation of the leaves creates a solvent that resolves the effects of the poison most commonly known as nightshade."

Self-poisoning was one step too far in my mind form scientific curiosity. The words of a harsh rebuke were on the tip of my tongue when suddenly we heard a knock on the door of our rooms.

"We seem to have a client." Holmes readily observed, fixing his collar. "Answer the door, Watson. I'm feeling perfectly fine to take on a case. It's exactly what I need right now."

I heartily agreed in my mind that anything that was able to distract Holmes from his chemical experiments was welcomed into my life.

Our client turned out to be a thin, short man of middle age. He wore a pair of lenses perched on his flat nose, and his demeanor made me suspect he had been through some sort of ordeal that had thoroughly shaken him. He nervously turned his hat in his hands, and willingly complied to take a seat when my friend begged him to.

Holmes had already moved to his armchair in the center of the room, abandoning his chemical apparatuses by the desk. He eyes shone with a glimmer of excitement and anticipation for the new challenge that was going to be given to him to solve.

"You are Mr. Holmes, sir?" our newcomer asked, uneasily alighting himself on the edge of the chaise that Holmes had gestured to.

"I am Sherlock Holmes." He assured the man. Picking up the Persian slipper he kept close at hand, he filled his pipe with a bit of his shag tobacco. "And this is my good friend and colleague, Doctor Watson."

I acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod of my head towards our visitor and sat in my own chair. Holmes offered a cigar to the caller, but the man rejected it politely.

Getting down to business, Holmes leaned back in his chair, pipe between his teeth and hands folded in a temple. "How can I help you…Mr.…?"

"Shears, sir, Mr. Ambrose Shears," the man introduced himself. "I'm sure you know nothing about me, Mr. Holmes, or what I do…"

"On the contrary, Mr. Shears," Holmes interjected. "I know you are an assistant to a professor of anatomy who often helps him with his dissection work."

Mr. Shears' face showed his pronounced surprise at my friend's deductions. Even I who had witnessed many of Holmes' methods could not understand where this statement had come from.

"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, "Mr. Shears began in an incredulous tone. "How could you know what I do? I have not heard of you until today, and I doubt you have ever heard my name before a moment ago."

Holmes gave a wan smile. He received a large amount of self-pleasure every time he could display his talents of reasoning. "You must forgive me," he chuckled, "but it is rather hard to mask the smell of formaldehyde. I figured you were either an employee at the local funeral home or morgue, or an assistant of someone who helps with many dissections. I chose the latter choice because of the small pattern of scars visible on the outer edge of your left hand. Small accidents with the scalpel, I presume? You couldn't be a surgeon for no medical man would be so careless with a living body. "

"I do help with many dissections, sir." Mr. Shears confirmed my friend's reasoning.

"As for you being an assistant to an anatomy professor, I spotted a bit of chalk on the bottom of the cuff of your shirt. Doubtlessly, you must be connected the academic field of someone who regularly teaches. There are not many other professions in London that come into contact with chalk. Yet you don't have the air of an academic man, so you must be an assistant of some kind to one."

Ambrose Shears sat in awe at my friend's skill. I still found myself astonished at the deductions Holmes could piece together from the tiny fragments of information he observed from his subjects. It always seemed so simple whenever he explained the process of the application of his methods. I half expected that if I had noticed the tiny details he always did, that I would come to the same conclusions myself.

"I was the assistant to Professor Edwin Johansson and also his only servant." Shears told Holmes. "He gave lectures on the science of anatomy for the scholars that attend Cambridge University. He had his own laboratory and amphitheater at his residence."

Holmes slowly exhaled a puff of smoke. "Judging by your prominent use of the past tense, I would say this Professor Johansson is now dead."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, that's exactly why I have come. You see it is the most curious affair." Shears confessed.

Readjusting his position, Holmes studied the man carefully. His keen eyes roved up and down the man. I knew that look only too well. Holmes was hooked on the exhilaration of the mystery. "I think Mr. Shears, you have better start at the beginning your story."

"Well, like I've said before Mr. Holmes," Shears began, "it is the most curious affair, but then again it started out like any ordinary night for the both of us.

"As you know, academics in the field of anatomy often find it difficult to find subjects for their cause. I suppose you wouldn't be surprised to know that Professor Johansson, like many of his colleagues, used the method of body purchasing for his studies. Though many in society disrepute the practice of buying the bodies of the deceased, my time with Professor Johansson has taught me that it is a necessity to bend the law sometimes for the sake of science."

Holmes nodded his head with understanding, "No one is judging you here, my friend, please continue."

"Last night, we were scheduled to undergo such a dealing, Mr. Holmes. A certain group of men had obtained a body that they wished to sell to my master. As to avoid the attention of our neighbors we had arranged to meet in the dead of night."

I shuddered. The thought of an exchange of a dead body in the dark streets of London made me uneasy. I, a medical man, could understand the necessity, yet I never quite agreed with the practice of 'bodysnatching'.

"After my master paid the men, I helped him carry the body down to his private laboratory. He would have to do some preliminary steps of an autopsy before his morning lecture. I helped him gather the tools that were necessary; all the scalpels, forceps, and cutters. The sack where the cadaver was stored in lay peacefully on the table where we left it. I remember going to open the bag for the professor, but at that moment he had realized he was out of his supply of glutaraldehyde and sent me immediately to the druggist. He didn't want to waste any time."

"Was that the only item he sent you for?" Holmes interrupted Mr. Shears' narrative.

"Yes, sir, it was."

"Hmm… thank you. Please, excuse my interruption." Holmes refilled his pipe and lit it again with a match.

"Well I left Professor Johansson alone in his workroom and immediately went out to purchase the glutaraldehyde from the pharmacy."

Again Holmes interposed to ask a question, "Did you take a cab?"

"No, I went by foot." Mr. Shears explained. "The location was not far away. I bought the bottle of glutaraldehyde and traveled back to my master's lodgings.

"As I entered the workroom, I was shocked to see the body of my master spread out on the table where we had placed the cadaver. He had been killed by a knife blow into his chest, for the weapon was still present on his body. I could not find the corpse we had purchased earlier in the night. All that remained of the transaction was the gunnysack that the dead had been carried and stored in."

Holmes shifted in his chair, a spark of interest in his eye. "You are right, Mr. Shears, this bodes to be a most curious affair. I would very much like to see the premises, if you would allow me."

"Whatever you need, Mr. Holmes," Mr. Shears offered. "Unfortunately the body won't be able to be studied, for I had to call the authorities to remove it."

"You called Scotland Yard?" Holmes inquired. "Would you be so kind to tell me who is in charge of the investigation?"

"An Inspector Lestrade was dispatched to the house, sir." Shears responded helpfully.

A shadow of displeasure passed across my friend's face. "I'm sure there has been quite a lack of imagination and progress so far." He remarked dryly, making his opinion clear of our mutual friend Lestrade's detective skills. "Nevertheless, I'll offer my service to the Yard, as well as to you, Mr. Shears. Come Watson, adventure awaits."

Holmes and I followed Mr. Shears to the Professor's home in a cab of our own. The skies had lightened from blackness to a dark grey color, yet our hansom still had to move by the help of shaded lanterns. Holmes pondered silently, tuning out the clatter of the wheels on the cobblestone streets of London. I sat opposite of him, trying hard not to distract his thinking. I remained quite puzzled with the whole issue.

"What do you think of all of this, Watson?" Holmes finally asked as the carriage turned a corner.

"I am quite muddled in the mind, really." I confessed. "Who would want to kill this Professor Johansson? And who took the dead body from the home? Have you any idea, Holmes?"

Holmes frowned. "You know my methods, Watson. One should never theorize before one has all of the facts."

"Suppose a family member of the dead body Professor Johansson had bought wanted revenge?" I supposed, absentmindedly.

But Holmes only shook his head at my efforts. "Facts, Watson, facts. There is where the answer will lie."

We arrived at the quarters of the late Professor Johansson in good time. Mr. Ambrose Shears had already left the comforts of his hansom to await us at the front door of a shabby little building. It was tucked in between the shadows of two storefront windows, and would have been overlooked by anyone who did not know of its location.

Holmes and I descended from our own hansom. I studied my friend as he took a moment to pause at the entrance gate to peer at the dirt path that led up to the worn and beaten wooden door. His intense gaze swept across the ground and he slowly made his way up the walk way, being careful not to step on some parts of the footpath. Satisfied about his examination, he nimbly jumped onto the front step leading into the house. With difficulty, I was able to follow, despite the slight limp I had acquired after my tour from Afghanistan.

"Tell me, Mr. Shears," Holmes greeted our client again with a brief handshake. "How would you describe the men that came here last night to sell the body to your employer?"

Mr. Shears began to pull at the cuffs of his shirtsleeves nervously, and the medical part of my mind briefly entertained the notion that his might have an anxious condition that affected his health.

"Well, they weren't the proper sort of gentlemen that you see about London." He confessed.

"Nothing unusual about these men?" Holmes seemed slightly amused at Shears' answer. "I see one had a significant limp in his stride. Perhaps, even a physical deformity."

"Now that you do mention it, one of them did walk with a limp." Mr. Shears quickly agreed. "And they all wore the clothes of seamen."

Holmes seemed content with this answer. "Let us proceed into the house then, shall we?"

We entered the premises together. The first thing that greeted us was the smell of chemicals often used in the realm of science. It was almost excessive to the point where I was uncomfortable. Yet, Holmes didn't seem fazed and ignored the stench.

"It is this way to Professor Johansson's laboratory." Mr. Shears guided us down a flight of stone stairs that lay behind a small door in a crevice between a sitting room and a salon.

The chamber glowed in the soft light of a small army of police lanterns. A few constables stood in a small group around the familiar figure of Inspector Lestrade. Their long shadows flickered across the plain walls of the room, and Lestrade looked up as we made our entrance.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he greeted us, "and Doctor Watson. Fancy seeing you after so short a time." Lestrade was not fully enthralled at our presence, but I could still sense a faint exhibition of gratitude in his voice.

"I hope you've taken care of yourself since our little adventure in '81." Holmes made reference to our first case together, which I had chronicled and published as _A Study in Scarlet_. It had been the last time we had had the pleasure of working in close courters with Inspector Lestrade. Holmes took one more glance around at the scene before him. "You look out of your depth, Lestrade." He remarked.

The Inspector scowled. "It looks as if we are out of ideas right now, Holmes. Do you have any bright ideas of yourself?"

"Six or seven," Holmes replied. And with that comment he drew out his magnifying glass from a pocket of his overcoat. Methodically, he bent over the stone table in the center of the room and studied its surface. His search for evidence continued as he next examined the floor. Like a blood hound on a scent, he crawled on the ground, inspecting every square inch of the room. After many minutes of this, he finally rose from the floor. "Maybe four." He admitted, storing away his lens again. "Where is the sack that stored the cadaver?"

"Here we are." Lestrade presented Holmes with the bag. He accepted it, and that too was privileged with his deep scrutiny. Holmes' thin fingers trailed along a tear that looked as if it had cut away at to release the dead body from its captivity. Glancing at the rest of the seams, he gave it back to Lestrade.

"I've seen everything I need to here." He announced. "If no one objects, Doctor Watson and I will return back to Baker Street."

"I will show both of you out," Shears led us back up the stairs and onto the landing. "I must thank you again for coming out all this way," our client said.

"I'm sure we'll be in contact again soon." Holmes gave a thin smile. We had come to the front door, and he stopped frozen on the threshold. He stooped down in front of a planter by the doorway. Strangely, he gave peculiar attention to the half-dead plant, even going as far as to collect a tiny bit of soil from the pot.

I could not make heads or tails of Holmes' odd behavior. Years of knowing him had led me to not question any of his ways of collecting evidence, for time and time again, he was always able to come up with the most spectacular ways of solving his cases.

Holmes stepped outside after his abnormal display of curiosity. I bid Mr. Shears a good day with a tip of my hat and trailed behind my friend to climb into the cab that would take us home to 221B.

Upon entering the flat, Holmes immediately approached his discarded chemistry set and sat down in front of it. He pulled out the small envelope he had stored the tiny bit of garden soil in, and after a short request to ask me not to disturb him, he began his work.

I took to the opportunity to indulge in the pleasure of a late-afternoon meal. Our time at Professor Johansson's house had been a lengthy visit, and we had missed the customary time for lunch. I refrained from asking my companion if he wanted any of the small scruples Mrs. Hudson brought up. I knew he was too buried in his work to even have an appetite. Apart from a small sigh of exclamation or sudden slap of the table, what Holmes was doing or trying to figure out remained a mystery to me.

Sometime around early evening, Holmes suddenly jumped up from his seat in an intense blaze of energy. "Diabolical, Watson!" he exclaimed. "Just perfect."

He abandoned his work rushing to his bedroom chamber that annexed the sitting room.

I had seen Holmes on many occasions display his talents at the art of disguise, so when I saw a burly seaman that looked like he had seen many seasons upon a weathered vessel stroll out of the room, I knew Holmes was on his way to go collect data from a different source.

"Don't wait up, Watson," He called over his shoulder as he exited our little flat.

A little disappointed that I too could not go along on his adventure, I settled down to try to finish the journal I had started that morning. That task bode to be too much for me, I am afraid, for the lines of printer's ink kept blurring due to my tired eyes and limited attention. Soon I found myself drifting off to sleep.

I awoke in the morning to find Holmes was still away from the flat. It was not uncommon for him to disappear for a time during a case, yet it worried me whenever I did not know his location for a long period of time. Danger was not always absent from his cases.

It was afternoon when Holmes burst into the doors of the parlor. He had discarded his sailors gear and was once again dress in his proper style of a gentleman. His face shone with vigor, and he was excitable at the slightest things.

"Come, Watson, we must hurry." He interrupted my lunch. "Now's not a time for food, my good man." He tossed me my hat and coat, impatiently waiting for me to join him by the door.

"Where are we going?" I inquired a little baffled at his insistence of action.

"Back to the Professor's home, Watson," We bounded down the stairs to the street level of 221B. I found a cab waiting on the street side for our employment, and when we were rattling on our way to our destination, I finally found the time to interrogate my friend.

"Are we going back to make more inquiries?" I implored.

Holmes shook his head vehemently, "We're going to make an arrest, Watson. I already telegraphed Lestrade to meet us there."

"You know who killed the Professor?" I exclaimed. Holmes gave me one of his all- knowing smiles, and I knew I would have to have patience to know the means of his reasoning.

We reached the house at the same time a police hansom pulled up to the curb. Lestrade met us on the doorstep of the entryway. Holmes swiftly knocked on the door and awaited and answer from inside.

"You've found the answer then, Holmes?" Lestrade probed him.

"I've found the man who killed the late Professor. He awaits you at the Yard for I left him in the safety of Inspector Gregson, down by the marina. You, Lestrade, are helping my find the man responsible for the death of Professor Johansson." Holmes explained.

"I don't get it, Holmes," Lestrade stared at him blankly. "You said we already had the man in custody."

The Inspector was interrupted by Mr. Ambrose Shears opening the door. Holmes turned to face the man, a grim smile on his face. "Inspector, arrest this man on the charges for conspiracy of murder." He demanded.

Shears' face paled, "Mr. Holmes, come now…"

Holmes cut the man off, "Inspector, this man hired another to hide in a bag acting as a cadaver, whom was then to be delivered by the other constituents of his plan. He created an alibi for the time of murder by dispensing of the supply of his master's glutaraldehyde in order to not be present at the time of the man's death. As soon as he left the house, his partner cut himself loose from the bag with the knife he carried and awaited for the Professor to return to the laboratory. On his arrival, the man killed Johansson leaving his weapon behind and escaped from the house. When Shears arrived home the job was done."

"Holmes, this is ridiculous." Lestrade blustered. "You have no proof that this man was involved."

"Ridiculous, Lestrade, on the contrary." Holmes countered. "There is a strong motive for this man to want his master dead. A dishonorable discharge from the Queen's navy, and no money to support his mother and sister as well as no pretense of another job, has made him desperate. Working for the Professor did not pay good money, but supported him with the necessities of life. That changes when your family is on the verge of homelessness and starvation. Johansson was not a selfish man though, and left his money and property to his only servant in the event of his death."

Shears looked from Lestrade to Holmes at a loss of what to do. Finally he bowed his head and conceded. "I am the designer of the death of Professor Johansson." He confessed.

Lestrade was shocked indeed, as well as I. He handcuffed the man securely and escorted him to the police hansom, leaving Holmes and myself on the doorstep of the Professor's home.

"How in the world do you figure this one out?" I wondered out loud.

"Simple," Holmes explained. "You know my methods, Watson. Once you've ruled out everything else whatever remains, however improbable, is the answer. I, like you, had thought perhaps that the Professor's death was an act of vengeance of some kind because of the nature of his profession. Closer examination led me to believe that no one had seemed to enter the house besides the Professor and Mr. Shears. Yet, I realized they had carried the body inside, hence the lack of footprints leading into the house, Watson.

"Later, I realized there was a pair of footprints that did not belong to anybody that had entered the building, only leading out of the door and away from the house. Obviously the murderer, leaving the scene of the crime," Holmes carried on.

"In the laboratory I was able to study the bag the 'dead' body was carried in. No one noticed that the tear pattern on the bag could only be done by someone cutting away from the inside. The body the Professor purchased was not dead, but a living man waiting for his opportunity to strike."

"Remarkable," I applauded Holmes' genius.

Holmes brushed off my compliment, yet I knew he was secretly pleased at my praise, "Inquiries down at the marina where the navy crews work led me to the knowledge that our Mr. Shears had once been a member of the Queen's navy. He was discharged from the service of his country on counts of gambling and bad conduct as well as other minor crimes. My suspicion in him arose when I saw the plant on our way out of the house. I knew something had killed it other than negligence, for all the other plants in the house were all well-kept. My chemical analysis showed that it died from an overdose of glutaraldehyde, the very chemical Mr. Shears was sent out to retrieve.

"It didn't take long for me to find the group of seamen Shears employed as his comrades for his plans during my afternoon at the marina," Holmes shared. "Soon, I learned of his family situation, and found a reasonable motive for his actions. I sent a line to Lestrade, and retrieved you from Baker Street."

I was once again amazed at my friend's skill. He had proven himself the champion of deduction I always knew him to be. Here on the doorstop, Holmes lit his pipe, the energy of the chase draining from his body.

"I say, Watson, I'm famished." He declared, extinguishing the little wooden match. "It's time we headed back to Baker Street."

With a sincere nod, I consented to his suggestion, and together we traveled home in good company to our warm flat and a fine luncheon, putting the case of the living dead behind us.


End file.
